


I Don't Get It

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, something's been bothering sam, tracking down bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 20:32:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3991807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know,” starts Sam, one evening into their seemingly endless trek around the world, tracking one Bucky Barnes; “there's one thing I don't get.”</p>
<p>Steve is tired, so he opens his eyes and tips his face towards Sam, but stays silent. When nothing else seems forthcoming, he gives in. “Mmm?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Get It

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little story about something that has been bugging Sam (and me).

“You know,” starts Sam, one evening into their seemingly endless trek around the world, tracking one Bucky Barnes; “there's one thing I don't get.”

Steve is tired, so he opens his eyes and tips his face towards Sam, but stays silent. When nothing else seems forthcoming, he gives in. “Mmm?”

“I did a lot of reading about Bucky – about Sergeant-”

“You've been helping me track him for three months solid Sam, I think you can call him by his nickname if you want to.”

“Just, I felt I knew him, alright? I was kind of a fan as a kid – more so than I ever was for your sorry ass.”

Steve nods. “I was kind of a fan as well,” he admits ruefully. “He always looked after me.”

“See that's the other thing!” Sam points at him, as if Steve has just made it, just explained it all. He takes another swig of his beer, and Steve would be cutting him off if he didn't know he was on his first (and only, no slowed reflexes on this trip) and there's over half the bottle left.

“What is?” he asks, just a hit of exhaustion creeping into his voice.

Sam gestures at him with the beer bottle, and just a little reaches over the lip, drips onto the shoes he hasn't yet shucked off. “I felt I knew him, from all the stuff written about him. And I know a lot of it is bullshit,” he adds quickly, at the look on Steve's face, “he ain't never been your sidekick, I _get it_. But some of it tallies with what you've said too, and you're the most trusted Bucky Barnes scholar around.”

Steve waves a hand, go on.

“He was a sniper, wasn't he?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “That bit they didn't make up. And he was a damn good one too. He had my back. This one time-”

Sam cuts him off with a wave before they can get too far down memory lane, because that street always starts out bright and sunny and ends in nothing but muddy puddles and guilt. “So why isn't he now?”

“Huh?”

“If he's such a hotshot sniper, why doesn't he use that skill? Why didn't he,” he amends, before the hurt look can settle on Steve's face. “I get why not now, but then. Before he-” He doesn't want to say 'knew you', because he's not sure that's what it really is, and false hope isn't always a helpful move, but Steve fills in the blanks. And then sits there, staring into space. “He could have finished you any time, man, before you even knew he was out there.”

And that's the thing; he could have. Steve has excellent vision and good threat awareness, but even he wouldn't know if he was in the crosshairs of a sniper rifle half a mile away. 

“He tried to punch you,” continues Sam. “Captain America, he tried to take down with a punch. Not to mention he had a gun on you multiple times and the best he ever did was a gut shot.”

“They can be the most painful,” Steve muses.

“I'm not belittling your injuries man, I'm just saying that no sniper goes for the gut when he's trying to kill someone. And no sniper rips steering wheels out of cars and gets into rounds of hand-to-hand when they could have just stayed out; finished it quick and easy.”

Steve is fully awake now. He studies his hands. Maybe the arm threw Bucky's aim off somehow? But no; Hydra would most certainly have fixed that particular issue if it ever arose, and Steve's seen him take out others with that pinpoint accuracy that can't help but remind him of of snowy European mountains. Just not him. And somehow, not Sam or Natasha either. “What are you saying?”

Sam shrugs, downs the rest of his beer and sets the bottle down next to the sink. “Just... I don't know. Maybe you're right is all. Maybe something in him is still him, and was before you even recognised him.”

Sam heads to bed after that, crashing down on one of the twin cots the other side of the room, out like a light. Its late, and they've been on the move all day and ten minutes ago Steve would have said he needed a caffeine drip into the vein to keep him awake tonight, but now the fogs have lifted and he feels jittery. Can it be true? Has he really been Bucky all along? And if so, what had he been made to do? What did he have to live with now?

He heads to the window and opens it, carefully and quietly. It swings on its hinges and a cold breeze caresses Steve's face. He catches sight of a flash of white, stuffed in the corner. It can't be snow. He reaches an arm around, and his fingers brush paper. Carefully, not wanting to tear it, he works it free from where's its been trapped between the window frame and a branch. The paper is not cold, and he feels adrenaline kicking in as he unfolds it.

The handwriting is distant but still so familiar; chickenscratch to mirror his copperplate. The wind has stolen his breath. Somehow, something is lodged fast in his throat.

_Go home Stevie. I'll follow you there._


End file.
